Through the Haze
by Black-Angel-001
Summary: sequal to Ulura's 'The Haze'. Sherlock and John are at home and recovering, or trying to. Just as they start to make progress with each other's help Moriarty appears, and he wants what's his back.
1. Chapter 1

**Through the Haze**

**Black-Angel-001: so sorry guys! i meant to post this saturday but a nasty storm came in and i couldn't. anywhos, this is a sequal to 'the haze' by ulura, written with her generous permission. this hasn't been beta'd or brit picked, but i hope you enjoy!**

**Warnings: Some violence, to include emotional/physical torture, mind games. Also two guys sharing a bed in a completly platonic way. No, seriously.**

**Disclaimers: I don't own this, just the idea.**

**Through the Haze**

Sherlock wasn't sleeping.

Not because it was boring, or because he had a case, but just because he didn't want to. He was tired; he could feel the exhaustion beginning to creep over his limbs, his _mind_. No matter how tired, though, Sherlock wasn't sleeping. John wasn't either, which was why he hadn't pestered Sherlock about it, and why the detective was able to get away with it for so long.

On this night, with the lights of London peeking through the windows of the sitting room, Sherlock Holmes sat on his couch at 221B and stared at the wall opposit of him. Upstairs, he could hear the creak of John's bed as he twisted through his own sleeplessness. It was close to three am; John would be up by eight, maybe seven if he was really restless. The doctor would come downstairs bleary eyed and stumbling, pretending he and Sherlock hadn't stayed up all night. John

_was somewhere in the warehouse, Sherlock was sure. He had to be, Sherlock couldn't be wrong, not about this. The world's only consulting detective sprinted down a narrow passage, throwing open every door he came across until he stumbled to a halt in a doorway. There, on a cot that used to be drab olive green, was John Watson, his friend. His once blue eyes, bright and deep and full of life and emotion, were now a dull grey, unfocused, yet accusing. That still tan face was now the color of death and slack, mouth open as if screaming, screaming for Sherlock. Sherlock's terrified gaze moved to the gunshot wound. After years of remaining unaffected by the most gruesome of crime scenes, Sherlock gagged for the first time. John's abdomen was stained a rusty color, and Sherlock could follow where the blood had dripped onto the cot and over the side to form a small puddle. But the worst of it was the maggots, beetles and flies going through the decaying flesh, eating it, laying eggs in the wound, in John's body._

_Unable to keep looking, Sherlock refocused on John's face, only to be frozen still, breath halted as he drew it. Instead of the lax expression of death, John's expressive, so expressive!, face was twisted into an ugly look of hatred and loathing._

_"You failed, Sherlock," dead John hissed. "You didn't save me, I thought you would!" Moriarty was right, you aren't extrodinary or anything like it! I thought we were friends, Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock."_

"Sherlock!"

The lanky man bolted up with a gasp he would forever deny being a sob and frantically looked around. Home, he was home, not a warehouse. But John, the blood, the insects...

Then he registered a familiar warm hand on his shoulder. Sherlock followed the arm to the shoulder, then to the neck, then the face. John's blue eyes stared at him in concern, not hate or loathing, and relief rushed through his body so quickly Sherlock sagged.

"Hey now, you alright," John asked.

Sherlock mentally cursed the weakness as he straightened. He settled his expression to his normal stoic look as he replied, "Yes, yes I'm fine. You worry as much as Mycroft. More, I should say."

"Someone has to," muttered John while he headed to the kitchen.

Sherlock listened to the 'John-in-the-kitchen' sounds for a minute before contemplating, fingers steepled under his chin. Nightmares, nasty ones that woke him in a panicked, frenzied state or with tears.

He especially hated the ones with tears.

In the beginning, when John had still been missing, Sherlock's ever active brain, which wasn't prone to imagination or flights of fancy, conjured every scenario possible. Before he'd remembered, he could think of (and had) literally hundreds of ways he could've killed John. After Sherlock remembered, it was the thousands of ways Moriarty could torture and kill John. Then, late at night while sitting quietly in John's hospital room, there were the multitudes of ways he could have found John mixed with the Moriarty thoughts.

Once his brain was past the 'He'saliveJohn'salive' stage, all those hundreds of thousands of thoughts and could haves slammed to the forefront, and rested comfortably there since.

It got so bad, Sherlock had triedhalf of one of John's sleeping pills, but that only made things worse; he couldn't wake himself up. He was at his wits end on how to fix it, with no idea who to ask about this sort of thing.

Mycroft was laughable and out right at the start. Lestrade, well, he was a possibility but Sherlock didn't completely trust him with this sort of thing. That only really left...

He took the mug of tea without looking, but once John was turned to go to his chair, Sherlock looked. His bad shoulder was slouched as if in pain and a little of a limp could be seen in the clipped military stride. So, dreams of Afghanistan then. Only, John was also rubbing his arm, the one Moriarty had carved into, so there must have been nightmares of that as well.

The two blending would be a bit not good as John would say.

"Quit deducing me Sherlock, I'm not in the mood," John sighed before taking a sip of tea.

"Can't help it," he mumbled, irked and petulant because John knew that.

"You can if you stop looking at me," came the tired reply as John flipped open the paper.

Sherlock did a not-pout (because he didn't even if John swore he did) and lay back on the couch, mug resting on his stomach and craddled between his hands. His fingers tapped out a three time rhythm as slowly and without really being aware of it, his eyes drifted shut

_only_ _to snap open again at the sound of John's scream. Another bloody warehouse, with too many doors down a too narrow and long hallway. John screamed again, a sound Sherlock had never heard from a human being, let alone his friend. He never wanted to hear it again._

_Sherlock took off running, calling for John but knowing the other man wouldn't hear him over the screams or pain. He kept calling and running anyway, now hearing mewls of agony that in no way could be John, a harsh Arabic dialect, and above all that Moriarty's insane, gleeful laughter._

Sherlock jolted up, then swore loudly when his still warm tea ended up all over his chest and lap. It only increased his annoyance in the worst way, making him ready to throw the mug against the wall, or the floor, or anything. Instead, at John's throat clearing, Sherlock thumped the mug harshly onto the coffee table then strode into his room, where he slammed the door. He changed into another set of pajamas (he wasn't going out for God-_which he didn't believe in anyway_-, Queen-_which he didn't care about_-, country-_see previous_-, love-_previous, previous_-, nor money-_which he didn't need_- thank you very much) and flopped onto his bed. Sherlock heard John moving, getting a shower, going downstairs and heading for Sherlock's room.

"I'm going to work," he called through the door. "Don't do anything too destructive to the flat before I get back."

Sherlock hummed loudly so John knew he'd been heard, at least. As his friend's footsteps faded out, Sherlock jumped up from the bed and headed to the window where his violin sat. He carefully tuned his treasure, making the strings taunt again. Once that was done, he tightened the bow, and began a series of quick jigs, just to get the blood going, before settling on Bach's _Violin Concerto in E Major_. Sherlock needed to think, organise his thoughts into order-the chaos his mind was currently in was unacceptable on every level. When Bach had run his course, Sherlock went seamlessly into Puccini's _O Mio Babbino Caro_, one of John's favorites.

Speaking of, or rather thinking of, John, the nightmares were ridiculous. Absolutely, completely and totally ridiculous, pedestrian, _normal_. Sherlock's face twisted into a slight sneer at the word, spoken (thought) in John's voice.

'_Get out John. My mind palace in the one place you don't dictate_,' Sherlock grow-thought at thought John. Speaking to his flatmate in his head was probably not good, but Sherlock used to talk to a skull in public, so there were worse things.

Like not making it in time and finding your best friend dead.

Sherlock flinched and a note turned sharp at the crescendo. Frustrated, Sherlock put down his violin (because no matter how angry or upset, he'd never damage it, ever) and began pacing. His room wasn't big enough so he went back to the sitting room and paced there.

"It's illogical," he told his faithful skull, rescently reaqquired from Mrs. Hudson (she took it so he could find it again, he knew; it was a game that had been developed to keep him entertained when he was bored and usually worked...usually). "It is illogical and dull. I found John and in time too I may add."

'_Barely though_,' the skull seemed to grin back.

'But I did! I remembered, I found him, we both recovered, and are all fine," he retorted.

'_Says the man who can't sleep_.'

"I can sleep. I just choose not to and I'll thank you to remember the difference," snapped Sherlock.

By the time John got home, Sherlock had worked himself into a tizzy and was no longer speaking to the skul ("He just keeps pointing out the obvious and irrelevant, John"). The good doctor stayed out of his way-much as he could when you share a small living space-, hardly bothered to nag him into eating, and instead of watching telly opted to quietly read after supper. Normally, Sherlock appreciated it, really; when John was quiet and considerate to his moods it helped an awful lot. Usually. This time, Sherlock was too irritated with himself and John to be appreciative.

"Shut up," he snapped.

John's head and eyebrows shot up. "Exscuse me?"

"I said shut up."

"I'm not-"

"You're breathing and turning the pages too loud! I can hardly think over the noise!"

John's mouth opened like he was about to make a sharp retort when instead he closed his mouth, eyes, and book. He took one deep breath, then another.

"Right. Bedtime, Sherlock," the former Army surgeon said firmly.

"I'm not tired," the formerly mature detective groused.

"Oh yeah, you are."

"Not." And with that, Sherlock flipped himself over to face the back of the couch, with his knees drawn up.

John sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. Who needed kids when you had a flatmate who regressed to the age of two? Time to change tactics.

"Sherlock, look. Maybe you're not tired, but I am."

"Then go to bed," was the somewhat muffled response.

"Yeah, well," John cleared his throat. "Will you come to bed with me?"

**Black-Angel-001: hope this is up to expectations so far...i know alot of readers can be protective about favored fics. hope you enjoyed and review please.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Through the Haze**

**Black-Angel-001: OMIGHOSH I'M SO SORRY! i really am but have you ever had a character who just REFUSED to be written and cooperate with your writing efforts and no matter what you did or how you bribed this fictional being in your mind you just couldn't get it? well, that's what happend to me. sherlock just did NOT want to be characterized in this chapter (i dunno why, i hadn't gotten anything really planned) and then john kicked his butt into gear...yes, i am aware that i sound crazy but any writers out there who read this (if you read the A/N i dunno if you do) will understand...i think...anywho! i didn't make this clear in chapter one and i probably should have, but** **here we go now. this will not be a slash fic between anyone. if you choose to wear slash goggles that's your choice and you are welcome to it but don't expect kisses or sex or anything like that.**

**Through the Haze**

"Will I what?" Sherlock turned his head to peer at John. "If this is your way of coming out-"

"What? No, no! God, I didn't mean it like that! Jesus." John ran a hand through his short, recently cut back to military regs hair. "Look, never mind, just forget it."

Sherlock would have, if John hadn't been so resigned and defeated. His friend asked for very little in the partnership they had, nothing very unreasonable, really, and never anything personal (Sarah and that date didn't really count) besides. Sherlock sat up.

"John."

The doctor paused halfway to the stairs, back still turned but head cocked in Sherlock's direction.

"What do you want?"

John turned then to regard him carefully, to judge the sincerity behind the words. Sherlock let his face be inviting, to show that he meant it and would try to help. Apparantly satisfied with his results, John shifted. Nervous, Sherlock realized.

"Not to wake up alone," came the halting and quiet reply.

John Watson didn't ask for help in this way, or any way really. He never had. When his therapist tried to get him to ask or acknowledge the need for it, John blustered his way out. It was just something he'd never done, even as a kid. To ask now in this way was hard for the independant and prideful man. Sherlock knew that, had always known that, and to be confronted with a John desperate enough to ask Sherlock Holmes of all people, it was astonishing.

And, quite humbling.

Sherlock sighed, because for the sake of appearances and making John comfortable with asking he had to appear put upon. "Very well. But if the papers catch wind of this you can only blame yourself."

John smiled, appreciating the joke and attempt. "I'll keep that in mind."

From there they completed their nightly routines in silence. While John was in the bathroom, Sherlock settled into a chair in the corner of the room. John raised an eyebrow when he saw, but didn't say anything. He settled under the covers and duvet, switched off the bedside lamp, and squirmed around to find a comfortable postion.

Sherlock watched.

John squirmed again.

Sherlock kept watching.

John kept squirming.

"Really John no wonder you're always so tired," Sherlock finally commented. "All that tossing and turning."

"I'm always tired because I run around London with you at indecent hours then work long hours at the clinic." John turned onto his back and sighed up at the ceiling. "Get in here."

"What, why?"

"Sherlock, I can't sleep with you sitting and staring at me like that, it's creepy."

"The female in that movie Mrs. Hudson showed me didn't mind. She seemed to enjoy it."

"Okay first, why on God's green earth would Mrs. Hudson have that movie? Second, regular, every day people in regular, everyday life do mind and don't enjoy it. In fact, that's how most restraining orders get started."

"John you said you didn't want to wake up alone."

"I am aware. However, if I wake up to someone sitting in a corner of a dark room my first instinct would be to shoot, or throw a punch depending how close they are. Don't make me shoot or punch you please."

"How interesting. Would that have been your typical response before the Army?"

"_Sherlock_."

The man huffed. "Fine." Sherlock climbed into the space next to John, keeping all limbs as close to his body as he could manage. "Just so you know, if you kick or otherwise hit me in the course of the night, I will retaliate in a similar fashion."

"As close to the edge like you are I don't think you'd have time before you went over."

Sherlock considered that, then scooted closer to John. "I had thought you'd say something about not hitting sleeping soilders," he said after a minute.

John yawned. "I'd never say it's a good idea, but it also depends on the soilder. Besides, in 'Stan we would sleep huddled pretty close if we hadn't time to get back to base or make camp, 'cause of how cold it got." He started to roll on his side, then paused. "Why would the first words out of your mouth be a warning about kicking and such?"

The detective kept quiet a minute. "When we were younger, Mycroft and I sometimes slept in the same bed on family trips and things. He had awful restless leg syndrome and twitched badly in sleep. Eventually I just hit back."

"God no wonder you're half insane," laughed John. "I'm sure it was the combination of sleeping with Mycroft and getting smacked around a bit."

Sherlock's lips twitched and he chuckled. "A sound hypothosis doctor."

"Yeah, sure. G'night Sherlock."

"Goodnight John."

Despite what had been said and the intentions put forth, both parties tried desperatly not to fall asleep. Eventually, the battle was lost as first John then an hour later Sherlock, drifted into slumber. When Sherlock woke in the middle of the night it was to the sounds of a sleeping John and the warmth of his body next to him. It helped chase away the dregs of his nightmare and lull him back to sleep.

When John woke a few hours later, he immediately spotted the curly head of his friend. The panic and twinge of fear John had felt from his own nightmare faded until he was able to settle once again.

The night passed quickly, and the reassurance that someone was there, that they had absolute proof that the nightmares were false, helped more than they really expected. Before either of them knew it, the sun was streaming through the blinds of John's window with enough intensity that it woke at least the doctor. John looked at his bedside clock: eleven AM. He thought about what time they went to sleep, which was about ten PM. A little over fourteen hours of sleep, sounded about right, certainly enough to get over most of the sleep exhaustion.

He stretched, careful of old and new injuries and pulling scart tissue. Beside him, Sherlock muttered and rolled over, face buried in the pillow. John chuckled quietly. He figured Sherlock would be out longer, as he went longer without sleep between the two of them. For a minute, he thought about getting up, going to the loo, having some tea and a late breakfast, or early lunch. He thought about reading the paper in his chair and having a lazy Saturday afternoon before going to the shop for groceries. But they were only thoughts and John soon found himself falling back asleep.

When Sherlock woke properly, the sun was setting. He lay still as he took stock of his body: rested, comfortable. His mind was buzzing of course, but now it seemed thought was clearer, more precise. With a care for a still sleeping John, Sherlock slipped out of the bed and stretched, long arms above his head and standing on tip toe. He'd gotten a sufficiant amount of sleep and rest that would last him for a while, so he would be up all night naturally. Somehow, he didn't think John would mind, this time.

He left John's room and headed for his own to grab his dressing gown, which he threw on carelessly while he grabbed the paper Mrs. Hudson had left on the coffee table. Sherlock flopped himself down on the couch and snapped open The Times, skimming each article he thought interesting (there wasn't many) and even those that got him in an upset about the sheer idiocy of them (there were plenty of those) until he came on the ads. He usually took more care to look over those, to decide if he wanted to contact the person placing the ad to give his input on the case or situation. As he was looking, one under the subject of 'pets' caught his eye. He straightened up as he read, then re read, a growing horror settling into his brain and gut.

_"Lost pet. Blonde, blue eyed, very loyal and fun. Bears the name 'Moriarty'. If found, please contact paper."_

It was decidedly clever, in a simplistic kind of way. No one would ever assume or even think the person placing that ad was a criminal psychopath and the 'pet' was John, who really did bear the name 'Moriarty' on his arm, along with 'Property of'.

Really, Sherlock should have expected this. Despite the months that had passed, and the silence from the criminal, Sherlock never once thought that was the end of it. The only thing he hadn't expected or thought of was that Moriarty would be going after John himself, not Sherlock. Oh, no doubt he saw this as a way to get to Sherlock, but that wasn't the point of this game. The point was to get what he now considered to be his back; the ad was to let John (and Sherlock, but that was actually secondary here) know that Jim Moriarty was looking for him and wanted him.

Sherlock realized all of this in the time it took to blink. He was then faced with a quandry. To tell John or not to tell him? To tell him would mean greater fear, more sleepless nights, more nightmares, a reverting to the soilder's vigilance and mindset. Sherlock had seen John in that mindset and it was honestly a side of his friend he didn't really like, or wish to encounter in any capacity. Granted, John had used his military training and command skills multiple times, but when the full force of the soilder came out (which was very very rare thankfully) Sherlock knew to back off.

However, John would undoubtably find out anyway, regardless if Sherlock didn't inform him. Moriarty would ensure that John found out, and it would be in some of the worst ways. It all came down to two facts. Moriarty was after John, and regardless of who or how, John would find out. His friend came downstairs at that moment looking better rested than he had in a while. The doctor looked at Sherlock and in that one glance the detective knew John knew something. It was amazing how in tune with his moods John was.

Without a word Sherlock handed him the paper. It didn't take to long to find the ad, and John's entire body went stiff, his eyes narrowed, and his mouth became a hard, straight line. The flimsy newspaper crinkled minutely in his tightening grip before the tension left John like a balloon that had been popped. His shoulders dropped, his stance went from fight to relax, and his face smoothed into John's usual calm countanence. Not for the first time, Sherlock marvelled at the fact that John could surprise him with unusal and unexpected responses.

"Figured it would happen eventually," John said. "Tea?"

And then sometimes, Sherlock marvelled at how John's unexpected and unusual responses could seem so stupid.

"Tea? A criminal mastermind who previously strapped you to a bomb then tortured you is looking or you deliberatly to do more horrible things and you go looking for _tea_?"

During this rant John had been heading to the kitchen and Sherlock had followed; he wanted to ensure that John understood the idiocy of his response.

Once more, there was a tensing of John's shoulders but they relaxed as he filled the kettle and waited for it to boil. He half turned to Sherlock, leaning his hip against the counter and arms crossed over his chest.

"Yes," he said simply.

Sherlock stared at him. "_Why_," he demanded.

"Like you said, he's a criminal mastermind. One way or another, he's going to find a way to get me unless Mycroft is able to find him first and literally shoot a hole through his skull. Which I seriously doubt will happen. So, I figure the best thing to do is accept it, be as prepared as possible, and deal with it as it comes." The kettle whistled and John poured the hot water in two mugs.

"That's...that's ridiculous," Sherlock argued. "Why not take pre-emptive action!"

"Such as?" John calmly lifted the tea bags out and added sugar and milk to Sherlock's, sugar to his own. "You know what happened at the pool. You two practically read each other's minds and could predict nearly everything the other was going to do. The same will happen here, unless we do something as insane as nothing."

That brought Sherlock short. Moriarty would expect something, some kind of panic from John and Sherlock. That's what he loved most about this game, to see his pieces and players squirm and writhe in discomfort, in mental and emotional anguish. Moriarty wanted them to do something, had in fact planned for nearly everything they could possibly do.

Except where they did nothing.

It was the most ridiculous and idiotic thing in the world, but...it made sense.

John smiled and nodded. "Although to be honest, this all comes from not being able to do anything until he does." He handed Sherlock his mug.

The genius took it and went back to his chair, staring at the wall and sipping at his tea. He hated doing nothing, but then this felt like something so that was alright.

He just wondered how long it would be that way.


	3. Chapter 3

**Through the Haze**

**Black-Angel-001: i humbly submit myself to the tender mercies of my readers (those that still are reading...) and beg forgivness. to help you decide to do so, here's another chapter!**

**Through the Haze**

John Watson was terrified. There was no way around it, and really, what were you supposed to be when a psychoticaly deranged murderer/criminal was after you? John felt terror and a healthy dose of freaking out was acceptable in those conditions. However, John was a military man, a captain, who had seen and experienced far worse in that military, and was trained to deal with terror, stress, and freaking out. What he'd told Sherlock was true, no good would come from panic, it would just lead to mistakes that would make it easier for the enemy.

Not to say that he wasn't prepared. Ever since John had been well enough, he cleaned his old army weapon every two days, field stripped it once every day, and did a perimiter check of the entire flat every night. He stepped up his work out regime steadily to make up for the healing time, and went to a gym to practice some sparring techniques he'd picked up over the years. He had been vigilent and on guard whenever he went out, almost hyper aware of his surroundings like he was back in the desert. At crime scense, he did his own analyzing of people he'd never met before, the kind you did in the field as a threat assessment. It was working for him.

Sort of.

The problem with behaving like you're in a war zone about to be attacked was that it brought up memories of when you were actually in a war zone, not just waiting for that strike, but experiencing it almost constantly some days. That lead to nightmares that mixed with the recent trauma in ways that really shouldn't make sense. But, having Sherlock close by for that helped a great deal.

Sort of.

Since that first night they'd spent sleeping together, they had spent every night together for the past week. It was in the middle of that week that the post in the paper had been discovered, and John's vigilance had increased tenfold. Going back to afore mentioned response and effect issues, the sort of stemmed from Sherlock accidentally on the floor from John's violent tossing, or bruised, and one memorable time, bloody. It was never anything too serious, but it was enough to make John incredibly guilty and refuse to sleep around Sherlock ever again. But, Sherlock (despite being bruised, kicked out of bed -literally!- and bloodied) was stubborn and knew that overall their new sleeping arangment helped them both. So he implemented all the techniques he knew to convince John to allow him back; John, being immune to some things Sherlock but overall not so much, relented. With protest and great trepidation, it should be added.

The issue of the nightmares had to be handled better, and Sherlock felt the best thing for that was to help lighten John's load on vigilance. Considering the stakes, it wasn't so very hard to increase his own observations about everyone and everything, took alternate routes with and without John, and willingly (although this was much, much, much harder to allow) let Mycroft add his own security measures.

It helped.

John was able to relax when he realized that Sherlock had his back and was implimenting his own security. He felt like he was no longer doing everything for both of them. Well, in a domestic way he still was; Sherlock had yet to clean up after himself around the flat. But, in regards to security, John had the backing of Sherlock, Scotland Yard, and Mycroft. He felt better about going out by himself, and with Sherlock because now it wasn't just him on guard. The nightmares eased drastically and they were both able to get more sleep.

But, Moriarty could be patient for so long before he went after his pet, and he felt the itch to strike.

So he did.

**Black-Angel-001: so...kinda a cliffhanger...should be interesting, right?**


	4. Chapter 4

**Through the Haze**

**Black-Angel-001: ok so you all should be aware that due to work and school my updating will be a bit more sporatic than it is now. apologies in advance.**

**Through the Haze**

Moriarty wanted his capture of Watson to be elegant, fool proof, and unstoppable. He wanted it to be painful for both his pet and Sherlock; after all, one learned theirs lessons better through pain. He wanted to ensure they felt panic, feear, helplessness, hopelessness, to know that no matter what they or anyone did, rescue would not happen. The problem as Moriarty saw it, was they weren't showing the proper anxiety and fear in anticipation to his imminet arrival. Instead, they were making preperations as if they could stop him. Even worse, they did nothing beyond that. That simply wouldn't do, oh no.

Some former business contact, Jim couldn't remember his name or find the energy to care to, had said Moriarty was very much like a cat hunting prey in the way he played with them before the death blow. Unfortunatly, the fool hadn't remembered his own words when he double crossed the criminal genius. However, Jim was quite fond of the comparison; it added another sense of unknown danger to his persona and he used it as ruthlessly as his other weapons. Fear of the unknown was one of the greatest human weaknesses and oh, how he enjoyed exploiting...

That was it!

Jim clapped his hands together and spun around in his chair, looking for all the world like a delighted, overgrown child-not that anyone would dare to say that to his face, of course.

"Seb," he bellowed. "Sebby!"

His top mercenary and favorite operative (not trusted, never trusted) came into the posh and lush office with an expression of long suffering, one John Watson could probably sympathize with.

"Mr. Moriarty, please stop callming me Sebby." Even as he said it, Moran grimaced.

As usual, Jim payed the request no mind; he didn't have to.

"Sebby," he drawled deliberatly and then delighting in the small, nearly undetectable flinch, "I have the most brilliant plan to retrieve Pet."

Sebastian Moran didn't approve of Moriarty's slight obbsession over reclaiming the doctor, but kept it unvoiced. For his boss to know his silent opinion was one thing, but to make it blantant was a death sentance.

"All of your plans are brilliant sir," Moran said sincerly.

Jim preened a little before spinning in his chair again.

"Yes, but this will be superb." Suddenly, he stopped the chair, facing Moran with his hands clasped loosely together on his desk. The childish grin was replaced with a slow smile that sent chills down Morans spine.

"Time for the cat to play with the mice."

It was the end of they day, and all John wanted was to go home to a cup of tea, some takeaway, and a hot shower. Sarah had asked him to cover for a sick doctor at the clinic, and John had agreed for a bit of normalcy and order. There was something soothing about the repetition of symptoms that he occassionally needed, and he was grateful for it.

He was in the middle of putting away files and charts when his office phone rang.

"Sorry Dr. Watson," Emily the receptionist said without sounding it in the least. "Have a walk in. Do you mind-?"

Sighing but accepting his tea, food, and shower would be delayed, John told her to send the patient in. A few short minutes later, a young man with dark brown hair, blue green eyes and an embaressed smile entered. John motioned for him to sit on the exam table and put on his best 'Don't worry I do know what I'm doing' face and went to the sink to wash his hands.

"I'm Dr. Watson. What's your trouble?"

"Just some headaches from dealing with the stupid and the stubborn, Pet. Thanks for asking though."

John's body went rigid. Ever so slowly, as if he were moving through molases, he turned. Leaning nonchalantly against the table with that same manic grin John remembered vividly was his worst nightmare come true. In pure instinct, John reached to the small of his back for his Browning, then swore.

Moriarty tsked. "Such a bad memory for a doctor. Ah well, you are ordinary so it's to be expected I guess. However," Moriarty pulled his own gun from his pocket and held it casually at his side, "I wouldn't go for the drawer it's in."

John paused in his inching to his desk. It hadn't been that great of an idea anyway, since the time it would take to unlock the drawer, open it, then switch off the safety gave Moriarty plenty of time to over power him.

"Very good," Moriarty praised like someone would their dog. It made John grit his teeth. "Show me your arm."

Wha-

"Your arm pet," the man repeated patiently. "Show me."

Somehow, John knew exactly which arm he wanted. Slowly, he unbuttoned his shirtsleeve and pushed it up. Moriarty drew closer to take a look and sighed at the very faded, almost there letters.

"How unfortunate." He brightened a bit. "Oh well, I'll just have to cut it a little deeper next time. Who knows, I might carve my name in other places too. You'd like that, wouldn't you pet? Of course you would; you did scream so pretty."

While Moriarty's face was full of fond rememberance, John was sure his face was full of fear; he felt like he wanted to throw up.

"You're insane," he said.

At that, Sherlock's nemisis frowned and raised an eyebrow.

"Well...yes," was the reply as if it was obvious. "There's a fine line between genius and insanity. I have erased this line."

John could only stare.

Moriarty's phone chirped. He pulled it out, read some message, and shook his head.

"Time's up, pet. I have an important meeting to attend now. But don't fret, we'll play again soon."

The criminal madman stepped towards John, who back up until he hit the sink. Moriarty ran a hand over John's head, through his hair, scratching softly. There wasn't anything sexual about it, Moriarty was petting like one would to a dog.

"I'll be in touch," he said with that crazy grin. He took a step back, put his contacts back in, and with a wink and a wave he left.

John remained where he was for the next thirty minutes, shaking. It took John the entirety of those thirty minutes to pull it together enough to leave the clinic. Even as he studied his surroundings, hailed a cab, and got in, John trembled from the fear, adrenaline, and trying to hold back a panick attack. He should've stayed at the clinic and alerted Sherlock, then wait for Mycroft to send someone. He shouldn't called Sherlock and let him know as soon as Moriarty left. But, the thing about panic attacks was that you never responded the way you should. Mycroft, and then Sherlock, had proved that he tended to keep his cool under stress and it was true. In the army, his cool and calm response had been admired, respected, and even expected.

Nothing in the army, or anything dealing with the Holmes' brothers could prepare him for Jim Moriarty though.

John payed the cabbie and went into 221B with automatic motions. He kept on the lookout until he was inside, and the grip on his weapon in his coat pocket didn't ease until he was in his room. All the appropriate door and windows were locked, he was sure Mycroft had someone watching the flat, and he vaugly wondered if Sherlock was home. Then it didn't matter.

The consulting detective threw some notes at the cabby and stormed into his flat. Mrs. Hudson came out to scold him for slamming and stomping around, but Sherlock just rushed up the stairs, ignoring her. His heart was pounding in his chest for more than exertion, especially when he didn't immediatly see John.

No, no, nononono! Mycroft said he was here, that he came home! Where is he?

It took a minute, an embaressingly long minute, for Sherlock to hear the muffled sounds of sobbing. He went upstairs just as quickly as before, then threw the door to John's room open. His friend sat on the floor against his bed, facing the door. But he didn't look up or berate Sherlock for barging in. He just sat with his knees drawn up and his hands in his hair, one clutching his old army weapon. The barrel was away fom John's skull, but a flash of extra worry surged through Sherlock nevertheless. John didn't pay any mind to the tears or choking noises he made, just stared and stared at nothing.

"John," Sherlock called softly. No reaction. Sherlock crouched in front of the doctor. "John," he said a bit more firmly.

John's eyes flit over to him for a brief moment, then back to the wall to resume a sightless stare.

"John-"

"I'd rather die."

"What?" Sherlock felt a flit of nervousness still his heart for half a second.

"Than be recaputred by Moriarty...I'd rather die," was the reply in a toneless whisper. He finally focused on Sherlock, who selfishly wished that he would go back to staring at the wall. John's blue eyes were full of fear, desperation, promise. "I swear Sherlock, if he gets me again, and you haven't come in...in three hours I am going to kill myself somehow."

"It's not going to come to that," Sherlock promised vehemently. "He's not going to get you."

"He could have," John said, beginning to shake, tears still streaming down his face, breath coming in gasps. "He could have today and no one would have known before-!"

John cut himself off on a sob, putting his face against his knees. Sherlock carefully pried the weapon away from his friend, and put it down within easy reach. Then he sat next to John and leaned against him, letting his weight and warmth speak for him.


	5. Chapter 5

**Through the Haze**

**NOTICE: So I've always been meaning to update, but life got in the way. However, now that the semester is coming to a close I've been finding more time to get my hobbies done, including writing fanfiction. I thank everyone for their patience and hope you'll continue to read! :)**

**Through the Haze**

**_Jim Moriarty wasn't pleased when he discovered John Watson and Sherlock Holmes weren't cowering like they should be; he wanted to fix that. The start of his scheme was to corner John at work; now John and Sherlock wait, plan, and deal while Moriarty moves on with his own plans..._**

They didn't talk about John's breakdown, or his promise; neither of them felt there was a need to. John knew his response was a reaction to brutal memories and new terror mixed with old. Sherlock knew it too, like he knew John had every intention of keeping his promise, and Sherlock couldn't blame him for it. Suicide would be a better fate than being Moriarty's...well, anything really. The nightmares increased and got worse again; most nights John stayed up with Sherlock instead of sleeping. During the next week, letters and 'gifts' came to the flat and John's office, all adressed to the doctor. Sometimes it was cards with irritating notes, once it was a dog collar and matching leash.

Then the calls started.

It wasn't much at first, just a brief, "Good morning Pet," that ended with a "Goodnight, Pet" when John was getting ready for bed. It progressed from there to calls through the day, to comment on John's jumper, his choice of pasteries, even unruly and rude patients at work ("I can handle that for you Pet, if you like. Cut that rude and obnoxious little tounge right out of his mouth! Then I'll feed it to you with his liver, would you like that? After all, I'm the only one who's allowed to upset you like this right? Right?"). Every number was private, untraceable.

* * *

The thing about psychological torture, Moriarty thought, is that you can only do so much from a distance when you were already slightly limited.

He finished typing out his text then hit send, watching as Pet read it after a minute. His blonde head shot up and looked around, and Jim watched as four men and two women also began looking. Jim grinned and went back to his paper. Really, couldn't Sherlock's brother find people who weren't all so obvious? He'd already known which were the agents of course, but having that confirmation helped.

It was fun at first, watching Pet and Sherlock squirm and Holmes scramble to put a watch on the two and their flat. But now, now it was all so dull. Time to move on. Moriarty sent another text, this time to Sebby and smiled when he got the reply. Hopefully his next plan would be more fun and longlasting.

John slowly blinked his eyes open, and knew that it wasn't good. His arms were above his head, which pulled painfully on his shoulder, and when he shifted he could hear the clink of metal chains. As soon as his vision cleared (not that the pounding at the back of his head helped with that) John didn't see much beyond a square room with stone walls. Wonderful. He shifted on his toes, which brought his attention to another fact: he was chained up in the middle of the room. He twisted around as much as possible and noticed the chain was attached to a wall, and he rolled his eyes. This just kept getting better.

He twisted around as the door in front of him opened and felt his eyes get ridiculously wide.

"Hello John."

"Sh-Sherlock?"

***Holmes is in reference to Mycroft**


	6. Chapter 6

**Through the Haze**

**_He twisted around as the door in front of him opened and felt his eyes get ridiculously wide._**

**_"Hello John."_**

**_"Sh-Sherlock?"_**

Sherlock looked John up and down as the doctor gaped. What the hell, was all John could think. Maybe that blow to the head had done more damage than he'd assumed. That could be the only reason he was chained up and Sherlock was just standing there looking amused.

"Sherlock, what's going on? Get me down!"

The detective cocked his head to one side. "Still haven't figured it out, then? I expected as much, of course, considering how very little you actually use your brain. But, this is obvious, isn't it?"

The words chilled John as they were spoken with the snideness usually reserved for Anderson. More than that, which was scary in itself, was the mere idea that Sherlock could possibly be behind John's current prediciment. It just wasn't possible, it didn't compute. John closed his eyes and breathed as deeply as he could manage trussed up the way he was. He concentrated on what he knew about Sherlock, what he trusted about their friendship, the memories. He heard...the man (not Sherlock, not Sherlock, never Sherlock) move around and say something but...the voice was off, wasn't it? The high born enunciation was there alright, but the deep quality wasn't deep enough. Bolstered by that fact, John opened his eyes.

Sherlock wavered in front of his eyes.

"Not really Sherlock," he gasped, feeling the strain of pain in both his shoulder and head. He blinked rapidly, trying to stay focused even though his shoulder felt like it was beginning to tear out of the socket. "Not...Sherlock."

The now blurry shape moved closer until his mouth was right next to his ear.

"That'll change."

* * *

Moriarty was quite pleased with himself, really he was. To take Pet in the middle of the day, right from under the nose of Holmes, they Yard, _Sherlock_! Oh! It was too good! He'd made it much more obvious than he was wont to do, but that was the absolute beauty of it.

When he'd taken Pet, he'd made sure it was on a busy street, with people and cars milling about constantly. Why? Conflicting reports, naturally. He could practically hear those idiots now, describing the kidnappers to the police. "Oh, there were three, both so tall," and "They all had masks, nylons, I'm sure of it," or "They were wearing ski masks with holes in them." Even better, the description of the car they'd put Pet in was more than likely to be various colors, makes, years, models. Naturally there would be some kind of common link, but it would take mulitple closer looks to find, and Sherlock will be looking for everything but the obvious. That was the way they played, after all; subtle, with finesse. But Moriarty had changed the rules without letting him in on it.

Oh yes, this was _delicious_!

Beyond the rule change, the obvious clues, their was his game with Pet. This was to be magnificent, the cherry on top as it were. Moriarty studied the vials in front of him, the clear liquid contained in each. He was going to make Pet his completely, body and mind. Then, when Pet was suitably broken and changed, Moriarty would turn him loose on his former master.

He chuckled. Yes, this was going to work out just perfectly.

**Black-Angel-001: alright so these chapters are getting shorter than i usually like to write but that can't really be helped partly due to life and school and then partly due to the characters dictating and taking over. couple of things: there's a word up there, wont, that is correct. it's not won't without the apostrophe, but wont. leave it alone. secondly, i'm gonna guess you've figured out where this was going (if you haven't...really?...and you will) so in these next coming chapters you will get warnings. lots and lots of warnings. you're warned.**


	7. Chapter 7

**Through the Haze**

**Black-Angel-001: i should probably be worried about the fact that so many of you are eager to see john hurt...but i'm excited about it to and love writing it :) this chapter is going to focus on john. sherlock will be making a reapperance...eventually...**

**Warnings: Specifically, noncon drugging, psychological, emotional and physical torture to include: beatings, use of weapons and devices (scalples, hot iron, etc), trickery, deciet, compulsion to hurt others/self, distrust, self harm, slow bleeding, and attempted suicide (multiple times). If you get triggered by any of this, you probably shouldn't read any more. If you dislike some of this, you probably shouldn't read any more. If you think you will not be into any of this at any time, STOP READING NOW!**

**Black-Angel-001: you've been warned and this is officially your last chance to back out now. if you're still here, and about to continue, then full steam ahead.**

**Through the Haze**

**_This was to be magnificent, the cherry on top as it were. Moriarty studied the vials in front of him, the clear liquid contained in each. He was going to make Pet his completely, body and mind. Then, when Pet was suitably broken and changed, Moriarty would turn him loose on his former master._**

**_He chuckled. Yes, this was going to work out just perfectly._**

Moriarty left Pet hanging (haha, he cracked himself up) for three hours, which was about the time it took to mix his latest drug concoction. It was a charming mix of LSD and that beauty from Baskerville. Two wonderful drugs, one that under suggestion created hallucinations and produced greater fear. The other was a psychedellic that could be used in so many various ways in so many different doses. Jim couldn't wait to experiment with the different doses and dose combinations to be had with these things. But he had to make Pet subseptible to what Jim wanted first, and the best way was with this first dose.

* * *

John wasn't sure exactly how long he'd been left there for, since there weren't any windows and his head injury messed with his sense of time anyway. But, it had to have been past three hours, didn't it? John looked around himself, blinking to clear away some of the fuzziness in his eyes and head. He turned gently, gritting his teeth as his left shoulder spasmed. As John looked for some way to end this before it really got started, he remembered something, a conversation, with amazing clarity.

_"John, I want to ask a favor of you," Sherlock said as he lay on the couch, staring at the ceiling._

_"If I can."_

_"If you are captured by Moriarty," John sucked in a breath and Sherlock charged ahead over it, "don't kill yourself right away. Give me some time to find you."_

_"Sherlock-"_

_"No." Sherlock swung up on the couch, looked at John with such intensity it took the doctor aback. Normally that expression was reserved for the most interesting of cases. "John, you cannot give up so quickly! It is against everything you are, everything you were trained for in the Army! If you give up, kill yourself, Moriarty wins and I-!"_

_John sat forward, elbows on his knees as he studied his best friend. "Sherlock..."_

_The detective cleared his throat. "I...will have lost my best and truest friend." When he looked at John, his eyes were bright. "I must be able to find you, to try to find you. Please, let me find you."_

_John swallowed at the stark pleading and the assault of memories. A light shudder went up his spine and a warm hand clasped his shaking one._

_Sherlock and John stared at each other for long enough that they couldn't tell how much time passed before John nodded._

That's right, John had promised that he'd kill himself, then promised Sherlock he wouldn't. He'd promised his best friend he would hold on and he would.

Then another memory assaulted him, one of Sherlock coming into the room and taunting him, giving him that cruel and cold look.

'_It wasn't Sherlock, it wasn't Sherlock, it wasn't it wasn't it wasn'titwasn'twasn'twasn't..._'

The door in front of him opened. A big man in a tan shirt and cargo pants walked in silently with a needle in one hand. The burly man didn't say a word but only stepped up, injected the contents of the syringe into one arm, and left, ignoring John's shouts and curses.

What the hell had been in there? What was Moriarty playing at? Oh God, it wasn't that Baskerville drug was it? John could almost guarantee it was. The room began to spin and lurch, the walls moving. His skin began to tingle and tighten, goosebumps breaking out on his skin even as he began to sweat and shiver. This...wasn't right...was it? John tried to get his feet under him, but lost the precarious balance he had on his toes and dropped all his weight on his wrists and shoulders. John gasped, trying to breath through his sudden inability to do much of anything, much less take in air. His head hung down and he fought off the naseua. The door opened again, but John was busy trying to get on his toes again.

Black loafers invaded his blurry sight and John started. Those shoes. He knew those shoes. He followed the line of foot to the ankle, up the black trouser covered calf, knee, thigh, up the white shirt and black jacket chest to the head of curly hair and the face it surrounded. Sherlock Holmes stood before him, wearing that cruel and cold expression.

John closed his eyes and began his mantra, '_It's not Sherlock, it's not Sherlock, it's not, it's not, it's notnotnotnot..._'

A loud smack across his cheek made John's eyes snap open. Sherlock smirked. "That's better."

John's eyes closed again, reciting his name and serial number. He flinched when Sherlock laughed cruelly.

"Really, going with that? Only, you're not a soilder anymore, not even much of a doctor anymore." A sigh, one John was used to hearing when Sherlock was having to do something tedious, or prove something obvious. "Oh well."

Without warning, another hard smack went across his face, along with the bark of, "Useless!"

A punch to his midsection. "Stupid!"

A hit to the kidneys. "Unneeded!"

The assault paused, leaving John gasping. He began to stutter out his name again, when a strong hand managed to clasp over his injured shoulder and grip, squeeze in a way Sherlock never had done before. Sherlock (not Sherlock not Sherlock not Sherlock...) squeezed even harder as he leaned in like before and said harshly into his ear, "_Failure_."

He released John as quickly as he'd grabbed him and swirled dramatically out of the room, the door slamming behind him. John gasped and sobbed as the pain in his shoulder over rode his other hurts, the physical ones. The room was still tilting and swirling, the walls lurching around him, and John's body was racked with tremors from pain and fear and cold.

_It's not Sherlock, it's not Sherlock, it's not Sherlock..._

"Failure"

_It's not Sherlock, it's not Sherlock, it's not Sherlock..._

"Failure."

_It's not Sherlock..._

"Failure!"

_...Sherlock?_

John was left sobbing.


	8. Chapter 8

**Through the Haze**

**Black-Angel-001: sorry for the lag time with this, but real life y'know? anywho, more john! sherlock will come later, promise!**

**Through the Haze**

Time had lost its track. No, track had lost time. Had he lost time? Possible, he was forever loosing things. Maybe he had lost a track. John shook his head. No, because he never had a track so there!

Still, regardless of who lost what, John had a vague idea what was going on. Every so often, a man would come and inject him with something, then leave. It got fuzzy from there, but Sherlock would come.

John swallowed, or tried to-he was dehydrated and was producing no saliva (he couldn't remember what that meant, or that he even knew things like that, but he did)-and shakily reminded himself it wasn't Sherlock.

He thought.

John wasn't sure anymore. Not-Sherlock looked, talked and acted like real-Sherlock...but not John's Sherlock. John's Sherlock was nicer to John, didn't insult him often or too badly (sometimes), and respected some of John's boundaries (occasionally). This not real Sherlock was acting like he did with everyone else who was not John so...

What was he going on about again?

Memory loss is not good, some clinical and professional part of his brain said.

"Sod off," muttered John.

"That's rude, and after I came all this way."

John lifted his head to see not-Sherlock (Sherlock?) standing there. The walls were dancing again, and John watched them until a hard punch broke his attention.

"Just full of rudeness today, John. That's not like you," Sherlock scolded.

Then he was through talking and got down to what he called business.

It varied a lot, the ways Sherlock(?) hurt him. Sometimes it was just well-aimed punches to areas that would hurt the most, or cause damage. occasionally he brought in a tray with a variety of instruments on it. Once he took a scalpel off that tray and cut into John's skin, just deep enough that it stung, got worse when the sweat got into it. Then one time, he did a Y incision, just deep enough that John gave serious consideration to blood loss, and another time his veins and arteries were carefully traced all over his body. But no matter what he did, Sherlock always stayed away from Moriarty's mark.

Today, Sherlock produced a hot iron, red and yellow at the tip. Some part of him that wasn't messed up in so many ways said, "_That's bad. That's really, really, really bad and you should do something to get away from that_."

The part of him that was messed up in so many ways only said, "_Wow, that's really cool colors..._"

When Sherlock pressed the flat of the iron against his bare side, John didn't even have it in him to scream or move from the pain. When simply burning wasn't enough, Sherlock got a large bladed knife from the tray he'd brought with him and cut deeply, blood spilling sluggishly. That still rational part said he couldn't afford to lose any more fluids. Then Sherlock pressed that red-hot iron to the cut, sealing it closed with heat and fire and pain laced through his leg.

Even as he screamed, that rational part thought, "_Oh, that's good_", and John started to laugh until it became hysterical screaming and sobs.

One day (John wasn't sure which day, or if it even was day) the injection came and he waited for Sherlock to come. He didn't. John got injected again, and again he waited for Sherlock, who again never came. It all blended together to the point where John began to sob that he'd already been given a dose when the man came. Once he asked after Sherlock, and for the first time in so so so long, the man with the plunger and the drugs and the needle replied.

"He left you. He's done with you. He's not coming for you for any reason ever again."

And that was all he said. He left too.

John was left too tired, too hurt emotionally, physically and mentally to do more than shatter with this revelation.

* * *

Jim left Pet alone after that, except when it was time for his shots. He'd had Pet for just over three weeks now, and Pet was responding beautifully. Some time alone, no human contact or comfort after a severe emotional blow like that, and Pet would be just about ready. Jim didn't put much stock in psychology, but it was useful for something after all.

Oh, and poor Sherlock. Jim grinned and giggled with glee as he spun in his chair. Sherlock was going absolutely mad. Holmes and that inspector had written Pet off as dead, and oh my! That conversation had produced an incredible tantrum on Sherlock's part.

Really, it was nearly too much! Jim stood and bowed to imaginary clapping before plopping down in his chair and giving it another spin.

"Oh the cleverness of me," he sang out.

He kept Pet isolated for another four days with only the barest of water or food. He kept a grin on his face for another two until Sebby put a report down in front of him.

Then, Jim scowled and became very angry.

Sherlock had been busy, taking down small parts of his organization. It wasn't enough to ruin him, but it certainly was enough to irritate him.

Jim hated being irritated.

Still, Jim had a bigger plan to finish, and an even bigger deal to settle. He gave Sebby his orders then went to see Pet. It was time.

* * *

John vaguely heard his door open and what sounded like multiple footsteps and voices (although he wasn't absolutely certain; he'd been hearing and seeing things for a while) and then hands, surprisingly gentle hands, lifting, holding, carrying. Then one voice standing out from the others, calling orders and for a doctor in that strange mix of upper English and a occasional Irish tilt.

But his body was laid on something soft, there was dizziness and nausea, and then black.


	9. Chapter 9

**Through the Haze**

**Black-Angel-001: a little bit of sherlock in my life, dealing with john gone from his side, a little bit of mycroft's what we need, but really isn't who he wants to see...if you sing that to mambo number five, it makes sense lol XD**

**Through the Haze**

If it weren't for the fact that in was completely impossible, one would think that John watson had simply vanished from the face of the planet. Despite the impossibleness, that was how it seemed. Ever since being taken from a crowded street with undercover officers and agents watching him, there had been no trace of the good doctor for almost a month now.

At first, Sherlock had gone into a frenzy of activity, demanding to speak with the undercovers, review the CCTV footage, and going to the spot where John had been taken from. It all revealed nothing. Witness reports were no help, as they varied so much so if a pattern were to be established there then it wouldn't much matter now; the men who took John were more than likely dead by now. When three hours had passed with no lead, Sherlock had deflated, laying on his couch and staring at the celing. He didn't respond to inquiries from Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, or Mycroft; he'd tuned everyone out. Then, the next afternoon, he'd taken a shuddering breath, sat up, and continued the search, a bit more subdued in his energy but with the same focus.

As the weeks passed and there continued to be no sign or lead, Sherlock's health deteriorated slowly. He ate little and slept less, and ignored all other cases except John's. He lost weight he couldn't afford to loose, causing his clothing to fit badly, and developed deep purple splotches under his eyes, making his pale face look even paler. Finally, Mycroft took matters into his own hands.

He drugged Sherlock.

It was a drastic, desperate move and one that Sherlock would not thank him for. However, his little brother desperately needed the rest, however he could get it. The food would be another battle, one that he would let Mrs. Hudson take over. Sherlock remained asleep for the rest of the day and well into the next. By the time evening rolled around, he was up and glaring furiously at Mycroft, who had stayed to watch over him.

"It was for your own good," Mycroft said blandly as he watched Sherlock pace the sitting room of his flat.

"Of course," Sherlock said snidely. "You should not interfere Mycroft! Do not again!"

"You cannot be helpful to John in this state. If you continue to refuse to take care of yourself, I will have you hospitialized."

"I will not leve it alone, Mycroft, even from a hospital bed," yelled Sherlock. "I will have John's body!"

Mycroft fell still and silent. "Pardon?"

Much more calmly, Sherlock said, "I will find John's body, Mycroft. I will bring him back and give him the dignity he deserves in that, at least."

"Sherlock-"

"He's killed himself, Mycroft. Rather than go through Moriarty's torture again, John..." Sherlock turned away quickly and stood staring out the window.

"He may not have. Sherlock, did you consider that Moriarty may have thought John would do that, and taken measures against it?" Sherlock turned to consider his brother, grey eyes bright with what the elder Holmes dared to call hope. "John could be alive still." Mycroft stood. "So, you need to get yourself together, take care of yourself," he emphasized, "and find him. You will find him, Sherlock, of that there is no doubt."

Mycroft didn't mention the only doubt would be about the state John would be in.

**Black-Angel-001: some slight filler here, to update us on sherlock. back to john next chapter!**


	10. Chapter 10

**Through the Haze**

A month and a half. John had been gone for a month and a half. Sherlock sat forward on the couch, elbows on his knees and palms pressed together against his lips. In front of him, a board full of papers, pictures, and maps full of leads that went nowhere. The flat was full of other such papers and folders scattered across every surface, available or not. Sherlock's mind was racing with information, some of which he deleted as useless.

A month and a half. Sherlock couldn't, wouldn't, stop; he was at least going to have John's remains.

He was engrossed in his thoughts, so he didn't hear the doorbell right away, or Mrs. Hudson opening the door, or the heavy pounding of footstep on the stairs. When the door burst open, Sherlock felt his eyebrow twitch but otherwise didn't move.

"Sherlock," Lestrade said with some breathlessness.

"Go away," he said, cutting off the inspector. "Not interested."

"John, it's John."

Sherlock sprang up, the surprise of the movement causing Lestrade to step back a bit.

"Have you got new evidence? Captured someone with information? A tape, a letter, what? Talk, man, I need data!"

"Sherlock," shouted Lestrad. "St. Bart's. John's at St. Bart's."

Sherlock paused, then staggered. "Well," he said after a moment. "Not unexpected. Obviously not the outcome I wanted, obviously, but-"

"What the bloody hell are you on about? John is in hospital. As a patient."

The consulting detective blinked, processing. Then in a whirl he grabbed his coat and scarf, putting them on as he took the stairs two at a time.

"Sherlock, all that noise," Mrs. Hudson scolded from the bottom of the stairs. "What's going on, then? You haven't been this active in ages."

"Sorry Mrs. Hudson, have to dash," he said as he went by and out the door.

Once in a cab on the way to Bart's, Sherlock ignored the text from Lestrade and called Mycroft.

Before his brother could speak, Sherlock snapped out, "What information do you have?"

Mycroft sighed. "He was dropped off at St. Barthlowmew's, assisted by two men. Once, of whom bears a marked resemblence to James Moriarty, stayed with him until he was put in a room. Since, only nurses, doctors, and the Met have been with him."

"His condition?"

"Fair, surprisingly. There is indication of previous injuries suggestibe of torture. However, there is also indication that he has recieved previous treatment. Early reports say he is going through some kind of drug withdrawl."

"And...mentally?" This worried Sherlock the most. Physical injuries could heal, given time. Mental injuries were harder to find and harder to heal.

There was a long hesitation on Mycroft's part. "According to the nurses, he was perfectly alright until the man with him left. He had a panic attack, the man said something to him, and he calmed drastically. Beyond anyone speaking directly to him, he remains quiet. I have medical staff who will-"

"Yes, thank you Mycroft," Sherlock said before he hung up. He had learned everything he needed for now; if Mycroft wanted to provide his own medical team that was all well and good, Sherlock didn't care. The cab was pulling up to the hospital, and he was leaping out after tossing some notes to the driver. He didn't hesitate to stride inside the building and go to the nurses station asking in his most intimidating voice "Where is John Watson?"

However, the nurse was unimpressed. "Are you family sir?"

Sherlock was just able to stop himself from pounding the desk and snarling at her in frustration, but only just. "Yes! Yes I am family you twit! I am listed as his next of kin, aren't I? Sherlock Holmes?"

"One moment sir."

Sherlock threw his hands up and began muttering about incompetent and useless medical professionals (professionals, ha! John was the only good one out of a whole bad lot) and then strummed his fingers on the desk. The nurse looked at him from under her finely plucked eyebrows and frowned before finally (finally finally finally!) pulling up the information.

"Room 419, but there's a note here-"

Sherlock spun away, not bothering to listen to her anymore even after she called behind him. He headed for the elevators, punched the button and briefly considered the stairs, but then the doors were there and opening and he was in a little metal box that was going up and up too slow much too slow why was it going so slow?! Then then then at last the doors were opening and Sherlock squeezed through them before they were really open to take in the hallway and the direction he would need to go. Oriented now, and the loitering policemen and were a great help as well, Sherlock all but sprinted down to the room where John was. He shoved past the protesting police and threw open the door, then proceeding to ignore the doctor that was stammering and stuttering his own protests because there, on that bed, alive and while certainly not well he was alive, was John Hamish Watson.

For a long moment, the two simply stared at each each other with wide eyes, taking it all in. Sherlock couldn't even begin to try and decipher all the things in John's expression, as he was so focused on alive alive alive, good Lord, alive!

That's why, he supposed later, that the shock was even greater when John scrambled to move away on the bed, face drastically pale, and screaming, "Jim!"

**Black-Angel-001: now the last few paragraphs may seem rather strange to some of you, but do not grammar nazi me yet; it was deliberate in an attempt to show sherlock's state of mind. how'd it work out?**


	11. Chapter 11

**Through the Haze**

**Black-Angel-001: (in an imitation of vegeta from dbz abridged) i'm back bitches!...ok i realize that was probably lost on most of you as hardly anyone in this fandom has anything to do with anime, much less dbz...anywhos, i deeply apologize for the delay. RL came and kicked me repeatedly in the ass and then rolled me over a cliff before setting fire, then spitting and pissing on my flaming remains...yeah...so! apologies, hope the delay will not take so long again, and here we go! before we begin, a few responses.**

**Ulura: that isn't exactly what i'm going for, but it's close.**

**Book girl fan: good catch! it's a small thing, but it may be important later =)**

**youwanabekate: your review was for ch. 8, but that suggestion you made? we were completely on the same page for it. and here it is! well, some of it anyway.**

**Vashta Narada Caan: die no more, here we go!**

**Through the Haze**

As John screamed all anyone else in the room could do was watch for a minute, maybe half of one, before they were able to get over their shock. Sherlock rushed forward to try and calm his friend, but John's eyes got wider, his breath became more shallow, and he scrambled as quick as he could on the bed away from Sherlock.

Away from Sherlock.

It was enough to make the detective stop in his tracks and allow the doctor and now some nurses to try and sooth John, finally resorting to a sedative. Even as it began to take effect, John kept wary blue eyes on Sherlock, mumbling, "Jim, Jim, Jim," almost like a prayer. Finally, John's eyes closed and he fell into a restless sleep.

The doctor turned a glare to everyone in the room. "What the bloody hell happened?"

Sherlock looked from his sleeping friend to the other (less competent he was sure) doctor in the room. "I came in and he started screaming, calling for Jim."

"Who is Jim? Is he a relative?"

"He is no relative," sneered Sherlock. "He's the one who did this to John."

"Tsk, tsk, Sherlock. Where's your evidence," a sing song voice said from the doorway.

Sherlock whirled around, a look of hatred strong on his face. "I will have it, I assure you!"

"I don't think you will. What are you doing here, anyway? I thought I requested that you not be allowed Johnny," the criminal turned a look of disdain to the doctor.

"I don't know exactly who he is, he just barged his way in here," the doctor said, picking up John's chart. He flipped some pages. "Are you Sherlock Holmes?"

"What? Yes, of course I'm-"

"You can't be here, sir."

That stopped Sherlock cold. "Say that again," he said slowly, turning to the doctor just as slowly as his words.

"Dr. Watson and his next of kin have requested that yourself, and other persons named Mycroft Holmes and Detective Inspector Lestrade not be allowed in Dr. Watson's room, or be informed of his treatment or recovery."

"But I am listed as his next of kin, it was decided after hardly two months of living together!"

"My, you do move fast," leered Moriarty.

"No one asked you to speak," spat Sherlock. To the doctor, he continued, "it was either me, no one, or his alcoholic sister! The paperwork was completed, and there hasn't been an issue since! And I certainly did not-"

"You aren't his next of kin."

"Who else could it-" Sherlock cut himself off. His mind brought it all together in just a matter of seconds before he was advancing on Moriarty with fury and a dangerous intent radiating from him.

"That's right, Sherly, I am! And if I were you I would rethink that murder you're planning for me right now."

"You did this to John, and you expect me and everyone else close to him to believe that he agreed to do this?"

"That's right, because it wasn't me who did this to John."

"Oh it may have been one of your minions, you don't like to get your hands dirty I remember, but it was you giving the orders," the detective snarled.

"Nope," grinned Jim, bouncing on the balls of his feet. "But maybe if you're really good I'll let you in on it one day."

"Sir, you have to leave," the doctor told Sherlock.

"Absolutely not! I won't leave John with the man who hurt him!"

"And just who was it he called for, hm? Me. I bet it just twists your guts, doesn't it Sherly?" Moriarty stepped closer, eyes narrowed but face still pleasant, voice getting lower with each word. "It tears you up, doesn't it? Not knowing what happened to him and only having your imagination to run wild with scenarios, each one more extraordinary than the last?"

"Moriatry-"

"You heard the doctor-leave before I have you escorted by security," Jim said, loud enough for everyone to hear while stepping back again. "I have poor Johnny to see to."

"You-"

"Sherlock!"

What was it with everyone interrupting him?!

"_What_ Lestrade?"

"Sherlock we have to go," Lestrade said, eyeing Moriarty and everyone else in the room carefully.

Sherlock stared at him. "That is the worst joke you have ever attempted! I will _not_ leave John with this madman!"

Greg grabbed his arm and forcefully pulled him out of the room and into the corridor. The door closed on the sound of Moriarty sing songing "Bye bye for now _Sherly_!"

**Black-Angel-001: i've got to leave it there for now because i'm paranoid writing what sherlock and co are going to do while moriarty is on the page...sorry i know it's short! please have patience! school is almost over and i should have more time then!**


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